Ask the Wrong Question, Get the Right Answer


It was storming outside.

Windows wide open, curtains flying like flags

freed from their poles.


The paranoid in me detected the manipulative in you

and there was one lame tear,

evaporating upon leaving the duct.


A hair fell on my face, tickled my cheek

and I wanted to scream for a short second of serenity:

that’s what the fists were for.


To think I used to miss the feeling of having a paper deadline—

now I will miss the deadline because I can’t confront the feeling.


I suspect in an hour or so I’ll stop feeling this way,

but what if I never stop feeling this way?


Release to be found in lying on a park bench

under the sun’s burning stare.


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